


please stop you’re scaring me; i can’t help this awful energy

by clizzyhours



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Dark!Isabelle, Death, Demons, F/F, Flower Symbolism, Gore, Heavy Angst, Implied Death, Murderous Thoughts, Season 2a, Sickness, Throwing out everything, Unreliable Narration, Violence, Weapons, clizzy doesn’t die, dark!clizzy in a sense, demonic!posession, detailed imagery of wounds, doppelgangers, hopeful and yet Not, isabelle is a fighter, post 2.03/2.04, the untamed references, the world is burning at one point wbk, throwing out the timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:27:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21649786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clizzyhours/pseuds/clizzyhours
Summary: or the segments of dark!isabelle and the road to tentative hope.Roses bloom.A crushed butterfly.And the growing darkness.
Relationships: Clary Fray/Isabelle Lightwood
Comments: 21
Kudos: 27
Collections: shadowhunters sapphic ficathon, shadowhunters sapphic library





	please stop you’re scaring me; i can’t help this awful energy

**Author's Note:**

> hi!
> 
> or the segments of dark!isabelle and the road to tentative hope. fulfills this is not your destruction prompt.  
> 😎
> 
> warnings: listen demonic!possession. unreliable narration. doppelgangers.
> 
> gore, blood, death, canon typical violence, imagery that may disturb you. dark!isabelle. literally dark. angst. murderous thoughts. tentative ending. please heed all warnings. i tried to tag everything but may have missed some things. feel free to let me know.
> 
> thank you so much and please enjoy,

Everything begins with an omen.

roses bloom in her hair. 

wait no.

i don’t recognize myself,

Isabelle wakes.

—

i am unloved, she cries out.

i am you and you are me.

She thinks of her father’s pleasant lies and bribery, of her mother’s anger, of the the responsibilities she bares.

The demon feeds.

Of judging eyes and bouncing back forth between relationships and affairs between women and men and people,

of how much it hurt when Alec became patabatai with Jace,

of the unseen hurt she wears.

It feeds and it feeds and feeds, growing and enhancing.

Her eyes grows black and she hisses at her older brother “i am done living in your shadow.”

i am done with you.

She cursed and fights with demonic speed, the invisible darkness overtaking her and so she shoves. Presses her arm against her dear brother’s throat, red fingernails prepared.

Clary watches, pierces her valiantly into Isabelle’s right shoulder blade.

It hurts.

It burns.

Isabelle gasps, blinks, startles. 

She’s standing.

She’s standing in the hall and shakes her head once, twice to settle the sudden nausea in her stomach.

There’s a sickness inside of her that grows and grows by day, unseen and deadly as a cobra snake preparing to strike with vicious speed.

Isabelle hands are unsteady among the Institute walls, fingers splayed against the cool surface and she brings her forehead close, letting the temperature soothe her momentarily.

Her neck aches and her head is filled with tension.

The wound on her back, right shoulder blade to be more precise, isn’t healing, she recalls distantly. Black and jagged and vivid starkly against her tan complexion.

She replaces and changes her bandages three times a day, the wound leaking and worsening every single time.

And she knows - she knows she tell somebody. Anyone. Her brothers. Her mot - no, not her mother with her daggered words and scathing eyes.

Clary and her sad eyes, her kind smile and fiery temper.

She can’t.

She won’t burden the ones she loves.

The hallway is sparse and quiet with no sign of fellow Shadowhunters in sight.

By The Angel, she thinks. Thank you for small mercies.

Her hand slips from the wall and she re-steadies herself, her black platform boots padding along the ground as she ventures towards her room.

Sleep, she thinks.

Sleep will help.

In her dreams, she sees blood and oozing darkness creeping out from nothingness, resentment and anger and all her capabilities drowning underneath.

She doesn’t scream but her heart clenches in anticipation.

In the night, she sheds her skin.

—

The next week is the week Isabelle feels like herself again. Proud and confident, wielding her whip and justice like an avenging angel.

The sickness is at bay, the wound shut tentatively.

She doesn’t question it.

(no, her soul murmurs.)

Alec is in on patrol with Jace and she spies Clary in the alcove of the Institute, their botanic garden vibrant as life itself. Green plants and colorful flowers. A few butterflies flutter above.

Strange, Isabelle thinks.

They don’t get insects, bugs, creatures inside their hallow walls.

A butterfly approaches her, lands in the palm of her open hand.

She crushes it, fragile wings and body broken.

all things must die in the end.

Isabelle smiles and walks on, renewed.

Clary’s sitting on the bench, hunched over with her pastels and drawing pads. 

She’s steady, Isabelle thinks.

It’s one of the rarer moments; to see Clary alone and not like a vanishing ghost, lost in a world of agonizing despair and grief.

Her presence is scarce nowadays.

She strides over with feline grace and whispers “boo” into Clary’s ear, her breath warm and ghosting gently.

Clary whirls, whips her head fast and nearly shoves her drawing tool into Isabelle’s throat.

It skims her throat and guttural anger rushes inside of her. The audacity, she wants to snarl.

The pride Isabelle feels. 

A was inside, an unknown war she’s not yet privy too.

She laughs loudly instead.

“Really Clary?”

Clary blinks then frowns, her lips pinched and her eyes narrowed into enraged cuteness.

Like an angry kitten, she thinks amusedly.

“Isabelle, I could have hurt you,” She says, alarm evident.

“With your pastels?” There’s an almost dark undercurrent in her tone.

Clary shoots her a furrowed look. “You’re the one who always told me that anything can be made into a weapon,” She points out, her voice evening into something softer, gentler like she senses a tide in Isabelle.

To know your enemy, you must be your enemy.

Isabelle remembers numerous weeks ago, days and days blending in together where she had taken Clary by the hand and led her into the gardens after Jocelyn’s funeral.

Clary wore grief keenly and so Isabelle had taken her by the hand, giving her an anchor.

She had led them calmly, tranquilly into a faraway patch of soil, gardening tools and supplies organized neatly.

Urged Clary down, down into their knees and picked up soil in her manicured hands.

Their white dresses were stained instantly. 

Clary looked up with weeping tears and Isabelle had pressed the cool soil into her white hands. She used her own fingers to close Clarissa’s hands, slipped seeds into the soil one by one.

Lillies for grief.

Irises for hope.

Calendula, a type of healing flower.

Magnolias for perseverance.

Gladiolus for strength of character.

She urges Clarissa to place them gently into the soil, one by one.

No conversation is uttered and Isabelle gestures to each individual patch, their hands smoothing the soil and mixture down.

Clarissa hitches a breath and Isabelle envelops her tightly, their white dresses stained, their hands interlocked.

Thank you and I’m sorry, she thinks.

They think.

Isabelle glances at Clary and murmurs “you’re right.”

Anything can be made into a weapon but some things are infinitely more precious, she wants to counteract.

Clary is watching her with heavy eyes, an echo of something flickering then disappearing immediately.

how dare you, She wants to hiss out.

Where were you?

you shut me out, Isabelle wants to -

She’s entitled to her grief, to her emotion -

Are you okay, Clary wants to ask.

Isabelle, talk to me, she wants to scream.

i can’t see you, her soul says. 

Isabelle smiles soothingly and says, “why don’t you show me everything that I have missed?”

i am right here, i am right here, i am right here. 

Inside, she screams and outside, she smiles.

She slips unseen, anew.

—

Her brother Alec asks if she’s needs anything.

She changes.

i could kill you.

Isabelle laughs, punches his shoulder and smiles.

She wants to bite.

i want to kill you.

Her brother Jace grins at her widely and she smiles back, wide teeth and all.

it hurts, it burns, she wails.

She shifts.

She sees her mother and shatters glass in response, blood staining her fingers. 

she wants to choke, she wants to crush, LET ME.

Isabelle brings the blood to her ruby red lips, licks, smiles. 

Truth.

She sees Clary in her dreams; she wants to consume her. 

Kiss her, devour her whole.

be mine.

The silence is suddenly roaring and Isabelle gasps.

no, no, no.

Again and again and again, she moves through unseen, visible and unknown at once.

She sheds again, again, again.

fight, Isabelle, fight.  
—

The hot water rushes across her skin and Isabelle threads floral shampoo and conditioner through her hair, lathes her body in lavender and jasmine.

Her wound is gaping; her soul matches.

The water burns at the black mark, the vines creeping across her back like she had taken her own whip and left upon scars on herself.

It hurts; it burns.

She smiles brightly instead.

Isabelle steps out of the shower, looks at the mirror. Looks at her skin and flawless complexion, her battle scars and beautiful remnants, her runes.

She looks at her inky black hair dropping water to the ground, her thick eyebrows and lips, teeth bared.

Her brown eyes are black.

isabelle, look inside of yourself.

(wrong, wrong, wrong.)

Her ruby pendant doesn’t blink, doesn’t glow.

It stopped working forever ago. Isn’t it uncanny how things can be taken apart just as easily as they can be rebuilt? 

She takes a brush and begins to brush her hair, smile stretched wide. The wound, the mark, breathes.

—

Isabelle is on patrol, jumping from rooftop to rooftop with excellent precision and agility. Her whip is uncoiled, gleaming fiercely in the moonlight.

Her eyes blink black and she’s consumed by the darkness inside, unseen, invisible. 

Isabelle launches her whip like Diana’s lasso, curling around the demonic presence in front of her. 

The electricity flies, the demon is coiled around her whip. The demon is choking, garbling whole.

She brings her sword down again and again and again, blood splattering across her face, neck, runes.

Isabelle wants to bite.

She licks the blood and rejoices. Clary comes to the full front of her mind, wielding her sword, wielding weapon after weapon.

A woman made heart, leaving her imprints everywhere.

let’s make her ours,

No.

Isabelle leaves her skin.

i am you and you are me and together -

—

Isabelle sees Jace and Clary together and wants to fight.

she sees red.

murder,

please no,

he’s my brother,

i love him

clary, help me.

The voice inside of her quells and she wants so much.

—

The days and weeks blend together seamlessly and time becomes an illusion. 

She changes into what she needs to be and Isabelle doesn’t let the sickness consume her.

See?

She’s fine.

At night, her dreams explode and in the shower, the mark grows stronger and she’s so hungry all the time.

Isabelle wears tight turtleneck bodycon dresses and lacy tights and knee high platform boots, lipstick reddest as its ever been and piles her hair into elaborate styles.

Clarissa looks at her and it makes Isabelle glow to high heavens. Raziel, be damned, she thinks.

She hugs her brothers, she tentatively mends her relationship with her mother.

Isabelle wants to snap their necks, break their spines.

She goes solo and unleashes her fury.

i am you and you are me.

Isabelle’s control is concrete.

She and Clary dance on the precipice of moments again and again and again like a carousel.

She wants to carve Clarissa’s heart, she wants to kiss Clary, she wants.

someday someone will love you heart and soul and oh, oh, oh, Isabelle does.

Isabelle changes like the autumn wind.

—  
but oh isabelle doesn’t sees the worry.

doesn’t see her brother’s furrowed brows, the concern deep.

the clave on high alert, the endless fire messages and letters sent - 

her younger brother Max. he misses you, Isabelle.

doesn’t see clary’s weeping at night. 

Isabelle, where did you go.

you’re a stranger.

don’t push me away. i am sorryi am sorry for pushing you away

The grief is unbearable but I can’t lose you too.

love makes you stronger, clary says. shouts.

she wants to engraved this into Isabelle’s soul.

but she can’t.

Isabelle is gone, a whirlwind of darkness and demon and shifting into a new individual each day.

and oh how clary doesn’t know that.

All she knows is that half her soul is missing,

she feels 

-

numb. Isabelle’s absence echoes like her mother’s death.

where’s my heart?  
—

Smoke is heavy in the air and the fire burns along the inner pier.

As it is, there’s a culmination. 

There always is.

this is not your destruction, Isabelle.

(it is)

it’s your rebirth.

(it’s not.)

Isabelle smiles and the mark blossoms.

the voice inside of her is withered, a dimmed ember.

we could do so much together,

join us,

she wants to urge Clary.

help me.

As the suns begins to set, Clary finds Isabelle.

“Isabelle.” She says plaintively, a mournful plea among the burning wreckage.

look at what i did,

She sliced.

look at what we did.

They sliced and danced, wielding her whip.

New York is safe.

they should thank us - we’re gods among mortals.

And yet.

(this isn’t our way, her mother shrieks.) 

“Isabelle, I am sorry. I am sorry for not being there, for not helping more,”

Inside, Isabelle wails.

“Why are you apologizing? There’s nothing to apologize for,” She says, teasing despite the dried blood on her face.

because you’re not isabelle, Clary wants to say.

Isabelle is everything, she wants to say.

There’s so much to say, there’s so much to do.

i will not lose you, i will not lose my heart.

Clary moves closer, entices Isabelle with heady eyes and soft voices.

i love you more than you ever will know.

Clary pierces Isabelle’s shoulder and she gasps, blood slipping from her mouth.

you will be okay, Clary murmurs.

Imagery flashes. save her, her brothers plea. magnus’s wisdom and magic. the clave sending out warnings.

Clary kisses Isabelle’s forehead like a benediction.

“i love you so.”

Inside, Isabelle and the darkness are at war and the mark screams.

It hurts, it burns.

She can feel it.

Isabelle feels for the first time in months and gasps, “Clary.”

Tears slips from Clary’s eyes and she whispers, “there you are.”

But oh, don’t you know that darkness never leaves that easily?

The sickness spread and it remains like a blight on her soul

They are one, Clary.

Clary kisses her forehead again and Isabelle is, Isabelle is:

It hurts, it burns.

The mark withers but the darkness remains.

how do we go from this?

Clary hopes as Isabelle burns in the arms of Clary. 

She holds on and on and on.

i will never let go of you again,

but clary, the darkness has a hold. 

The roses crumble to ash.


End file.
